


The Inches Between New York And Maine

by ScarTissue



Series: H- E- DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Panty Kink, The Loss Of Chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:12:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarTissue/pseuds/ScarTissue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh fuck,” Derek whispers, biting his tongue and trying to angle himself away from the rest of the room, eyeing the stairs littered with couples and clothes and streamers. “Oh fuck.”</p><p>(Or, Derek Nurse is Losing His Shit TM).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inches Between New York And Maine

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sorry?

“I like _these_ ,” Lardo was striking a Bitty TM pose in the dressing room mirror, thrusting her back forwards, scarlet lines of what basically amounted to threads clinging to the swell of her ass. “Nurse?” It kind of sounded like “Cadet!” to Derek, but he found the dynamic fitting. 

  
“Mmm…” Derek strolled Lardo in lazy circles, trying to get her angles right. ( _Vulturing,_ Will’s voice supplied internally. _“You_ **_vulture_ ** _around, Nurse. Is this a Poe thing or?” “You know Poe?” “I- shut up._ ”)

  
  
“I like it,” he said, firmly, because saying it was _hella fucking sexy_ might be too far for bros, and not what Lardo was looking for, anyway. “Maybe green though? Or black. Definitely black.”

  
  
“Swasome.” Lardo’s little grin was infectious- Derek felt his cheeks stretch back farther than he usually let them. “Want the blue ones in my bag too? You can pick them up tomorrow.”

  
  
“Yes please O Captain, my captain.” “Shut up, Private.”   


 

                                                              {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

 

Derek can’t definitively say when this whole thing started, but he thinks he was sixteen maybe, after his first prom-the soft light of the ballroom caught trinkets and lace and bows of every color and shine and the _pure aesthetic of it all, dude, but I have uh, this … extra? Thing, I guess, appreciation might be better-_

 

His sister hadn’t really gotten it, but she understood the basic concept, and countered with her flat out long-hair-snapback-thick-thighs worship for an hour (and that, kids, is how Aunt Hannah and Dad came out to each other. Good times.)

 

The Will thing though- well, Derek is an English major, and they’re all poets at heart (no matter what the pre-law fools say). He likes to think that it started before they were even born, that the fire from the very first star has been burning in Will’s hair and eyes all these millennium and Derek has simply been following helpless, keeping cautiously close for the off thrown warmth, even if it is scathing, even if it burns, _even if he’s earned the wound,_ he will take it. He will take the fire and smile.

 

                                                              {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

 

“What’re _thooooooooooooooooooooose_ Nurse?”

  
  
“That wasn’t funny two months ago, Greg. And get out.”

  
  
“I live here, hockey bro. Now help me with my digital rhetoric class- we’re doing reddit?”

  
  
“... That’s distinctly unchill.”

 

  
                                                               {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

 

 

Derek is people watching at the party again.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t like to party- he parties so hard he has a _damage control team_ , for crying out loud. He just enjoys observing the chaos, too. Especially the chaos of every jock on campus peacocking in his living room drunk off their abnormally large asses.

 

  
See, Derek is a big fan of _displays._ Not just in a art gallery sense- he likes the idea that things can be added to, special occasioned up, that the day to day grind has spots of beauty in it, so long as you think to add them- pale pink roses tucked behind ears, scraps of lace peeking out of the waistband of tattered sweats, ripped tights under pastel dresses with sharp collars. His Poetry professor says he treats words like they hide things, a wall of bodies around the fort, the paper a soft tattered curtain. Derek’s inclined to agree- he likes that there can be secrets under clothes with no hint but red cheeks and lowered eyes.

  
  
So yea, displays. More so in private. His very favorite fantasies,the ones that make him jog up the stairs and cram his hand down his pants _with his shoulder blades still pressed to the door,_ **_creep,_ ** always have a running theme- a slightly smaller, pale hand gently grasps his, golden eyes looking from under dark lashes and that pretty flush starting to spread- “ _Can I show you something upstairs,_ **_Derek_ ** _?”_

 

“Oh shit,” Derek whispers, biting his tongue and trying to angle himself away from the rest of the room, eyeing the stairs littered with couples and clothes and streamers. “Oh shit.”

  


                                                                {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  


_“Please?” He always near sighs as he lifts up his sometimes skirts, or shirt, or slides his pants down slowly enough to drive him half mad, blood thrumming in his ears while he tries to just_ **_sit still-_ ** _this time Will is grasping smooth blue cloth in both hands so hard they tremble with his voice, slightly, to reveal knock knees and white thighs and, Oh my holy God, Oh my God,_ **_Thank you,_ ** _something Derek knows he must’ve knicked from his own drawer that-must-never-be-touched-so-help-me-Greg- that damn_ **_scrap_ ** _of lace Lardo made him get on a whim, the color of new snow with roses interwoven in the design._

  
  
_“Those are mine.” Derek finds his voice and it’s almost alien- hoarse and awed, like there's rain after years and years, fresh and life giving on stubborn land. “Where did you-”_

  
  
_“Don’t be mad! Please,” Will is red apple cheeked and biting his bottom lip, and Derek can imagine the blood under the surface, pooling hot and violent. He gets like this, when he’s nervous. He’s_ **_nervous!_ ** _Derek ignores the thrill of glee in his stomach. He leans back, suddenly more than happy to let Will stutter for a minute._

_  
_ _“I just- um.” Derek puts all his weight on his wrists and spreads his legs, erection obnoxiously_ **_there_ ** _in his black jeans. For his own comfort. Obviously._

  
  
_Will visibly straightens. “I just thought,” he says slowly, “that this- was a good way to show. Because I can never quite find the words. Especially with you. So-” Will takes those three steps forward in space and alters the sheer fabric of time, because his thighs are brushing Derek’s and the top of his drawn skirt is on his stomach and he is never, never letting this go again._

  
  


_“So,” Derek musters a mild tone. It is a testament to his all consuming self control, this want he keeps inside him- how a piece of the moon is half clothed in front of him and he is still asking “Yes?”_

 

 _“So,” he begins again, drawing up one arm to get his hand around Will’s hip and thumb lightly at the skin there, soft from having never seen the sun (and doesn’t_ **_that_ ** _get you up- his own mind is harassing him, jesus christ), dipping just so into the band of the lace. “Is this all you have to show me?”_   


_Will draws in a deep breath. Bone colored knuckles keep clenched as he slowly, effortlessly pulls his dress up and over his head, tossed carelessly on the floor- another day he’ll fold it, so it won’t rumple, but now there is an vast expanse of white skin in his view, achingly familiar but so far flung from his hands for so long, it seems only memory. Ribs and collar bones and pert pink nipples are shuddering in time to Will’s hummingbird heartbeat- Derek thinks he can almost feel it from here. Its nothing to sit up and press his fingers into Will’s throat, and almost groan when he tilts his head to let him nearly envelop it, one hand skating to Will’s thigh and firmly pulling him into his lap, balanced in the cradle of his hips. After all this pining and imagining, half remembered dreams and bitten wrists behind hastily locked doors, they’re sharing breath- Derek exhaling at the same time Will makes a breathy, pleased noise at their pelvises meeting, and it’s like nothing was ever different._

  
_  
The last time Derek held Will’s gaze like this, he was pressing him so firmly into the hallway wall Derek still checks for an imprint even now-Will’s jaw was tight, kisses a touch too hard and fingers clenching bone white into Derek’s shoulders. Derek had just thought he had missed him. _

_(The creation of #Nurseypatrol was not to spare the sanctity of Will’s person, but rather Derek’s self admittedly fragile heart- Will was drunk. Will does not remember locking eyes at the first party after Winter break, the very first night back, and swaying across the room, fingers softly winding around his forearm after tracing his lines of ink, up the stairs, until Derek thought the world was beginning anew and Will’s mouth opened like day dawning for him. And then-_   
  
_And then, Will turned to the left and ralped in Shitty’s doorway. Twice. Derek even carried him to the couch._

  
  
  


 

 _He’s chill with this. Everything is chill. He’s_ **_fine_ ** _, damn it._

  
  


_He isn’t daydreaming in the corner of Lardo’s room with his hand down his fucking pants instead of getting shitfaced after the play off blues are finally gone. He isn’t up here thinking about how long the summer is, the distance in inches between new york and maine, the miles of rain in his lonesome heart, drip drip dripping into the ocean searching for Will’s boat.)_

  
_  
The bedroom is sparse in a clean way and Will’s eyes are clear now, like fresh beams in a rosy morning- sunlight in a part of the forest no one’s ever touched. He’s lovely, he looks lost, so Derek pulls him closer and whispers his lips from throat to ear._

_“I love you,” he murmurs into Will’s skin, praying, grasping, lace and flesh and snow under his fingers and he’s probably bruising him but Will is chanting his name like he can’t stop, saying it like he needs him, like he wants to wake up in his arms and wear his hoodies and meet his parents, like he’s going to be there when Derek opens his eyes. “I love you, I love you, -”_

 

  
  
“I love you,” Derek is repeating quietly into the back of his hand, bitten raw, slumped on the floor of Lardo’s room with the bass so loud downstairs he can’t even hear himself properly. The room is empty. His lap is empty. _The inches between New York and Maine, your heart and its miles of rain-_   


 

  
“I love you, I love you, I love you, I-”

**Author's Note:**

> ....I'm a little sorry.


End file.
